But it would appear almost impossible to get honest men to act in the capacity of spies. There is an everlasting “shake-up” of federal officials who are supposed to see that the Volstead Act is enforced. Here again the human element enters—that element which the fanatics never recognize. The temptations are too great for the average man. He knows that bootleggers are getting rich. And soon he sees that if he closes his eyes and opens his hand, he too can become a Crœsus. At first, it may be that he hesitates. There is danger of being caught. Well, why not take a chance? he says to himself. Others are doing it. After all, one has to live, and a six-cylinder car would be nice. Thus is the voice of conscience quieted; and soon it ceases to whisper at all. That little Italian restaurant in his district—ah, yes! they dispense drinks to the favored few who know the ring the bell must be given. It would be so easy to pretend that he does not know of its existence; and Tony, after all, is not such a bad sort. He’ll hand over the kale, without a question, without a murmur.
And so one more federal official goes to the dogs, a man who until yesterday was honest. Knowing that his lucrative career may be brief, he has determined to make hay while the sun shines. And Prohibition has created another crook in the wicked city, though of course it has cured a drunkard in the virtuous country. And the Anti-Saloon people are perfectly satisfied.
Are you?
CHAPTER XII
“DON’T JOKE ABOUT PROHIBITION”
Not content with forcing us to close our lips to liquor, the Prohibitionists recently sent out a request, which amounted to an order, that no one should open his lips to speak disparagingly or in jest of the sacred Eighteenth Amendment. We were to be denied the blessed privilege of laughing at ourselves, even! I suppose that a few fanatics—oh, merely to study life, bless their hearts!—had gone into a vaudeville theater and had been incensed at the ribaldry of the actors and the shrieks of mirth of the audience over Prohibition wheezes. I have seen an assemblage in convulsions when some light mention was made of Mr. Volstead; and whenever a flask is displayed on the screen of some movie house, there never fails to follow a round of loud applause.
Our comic weeklies and newspaper supplements continue to print Prohibition jokes, much to the delight of their readers. One fearless periodical, Judge, has come out openly for light wines and beer—and lost a valued contributor thereby. Another paper, on the contrary, solemnly prints this editorial, headed “There Are Jokes and Jokes”:
“A great concern operating vaudeville theaters in most of the large cities has issued an order that all performers must cut out their jokes about Prohibition. This is progress. It should be followed by orders to eliminate Prohibition jokes from our legislatures, courts, police stations, city halls, and all other places where men supposed to be serious and doing serious work are to be found. The outstanding fact about Prohibition seems to be that people forget that it came about through an amendment to the United States Constitution.”
Meanwhile, the mother-in-law joke is tolerated, and roared at. It is perfectly all right for a man to make fun of his wife’s mother, since there is no formal statute against such jests; but it is unthinkable that he should laugh at himself because he can’t get a simple glass of beer. The country he fought for, and was willing to die for, denies him an ancient form of enjoyment. He could make fun openly of negroes, though the Fifteenth Amendment tells him that they are his peers.
The reformer, you see, never counted upon the chaffing which the Volstead Act would have to stand. Ridicule can kill anything, and they know it now. Therefore, they must stop ridicule by mandate. Heaven knows there is little to smile at these days—except Prohibition. Are we to have that luxury taken from us too?